


A Beautiful Utterance

by Winterstar



Category: White Collar
Genre: Multi, none – see pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 16:39:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4312509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4312230"> A Beautiful Ache</a> - Peter and Neal return home to recuperate after the accident. Neal has issues he has to deal with but doesn’t confess them to Peter and Elizabeth. Some hurt, lots of angst (this is how I do comfort), some comfort, a little (wee) bit of humor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Beautiful Utterance

_Everyone understands the power of a weapon like a gun or a grenade. Very few understand the power of the word, especially the spoken word. Neal Caffrey **reformed (?)** con-artist and consultant to the FBI possesses an intimate understanding and knowledge of the use of the spoken word. His life and his living as an adult (and sometimes as a child) depended on his abilities and talents with stringing together the perfect phrase as well as the tonal cadence of the words. He knows how to speak, what to speak, and how to move when he speaks. He can make an entire room of partiers stop to look at him or have the same room completely ignore his presence – all with the sweep of his words, his motions. His words, his life, Neal Caffrey’s very definition is wrapped up around words, his voice, the pitch and ebb of his words._

_Nothing saves him from being imprisoned from his powerlessness when his words are stripped from him, taken away from him. A wired mouth due to a fracture jaw will do that to anyone, but it means a complete loss of Neal Caffrey. A broken arm with a cast down to his fingers complicates things, especially disabling his right arm. It is though not his complete lack of ability to communicate which does him in, but instead the kindnesses of those around him which is his undoing._

*oOo*  
Jones arrives to pick him up at the hospital three days after Peter was discharged, a full ten days after the car slammed into them while Peter and Neal were lunching at an outdoor café to discuss plans for Elizabeth’s birthday. He should feel electrified with happiness, ready to break out of the dull and sometimes desolate hospital room. After all, it is the same room where he lay for days without knowing Peter was still alive, mourning the loss of a friend, a lover, and his life. Instead he feels a certain numbness that he cannot place, it crawls up his fingers into his spine and immobilizes every sense, and it mimics the wires clenching his jaw together. He wonders if it tries to repair him as well.

When Jones appears at his hospital room door with the nurse, Neal sighs out his relief. He isn’t sure he could deal with Mozzie or Elizabeth right at this moment. He needs to prepare, though he’s had days to ready himself for the inevitable. Released, he will hunker down at Burke’s house to be cared for and pampered for the next few weeks until he’s able to fend for himself and move back to June’s. He argued the arrangement, as much as he could with no easy way to communicate. His left hand writing skills aren’t up to their normal level of proficiency. He hasn’t practiced; none of his aliases lately have needed to be left handed. He tries to smile at that thought, but it hurts too much and he bends over in the wheelchair as the nurse carts him behind the leading Jones.

She pats him on the back and he shuffles her touch off. She’s the same nurse who seemed to be incompetent, or oblivious to the fact he couldn’t reach the damned call button most of the time. Lying in bed, either in a pool of his own vomit or waiting for his next dose of pain pills while unable to reach out for help will forever taint his vision of her.

She talks to Jones in a nice flowery voice and it turns his stomach. Of course, she would treat him with respect; he’s an FBI agent while Neal is just a convict. When she tries to assist him as he lifts himself from the chair to the car, he shrugs her off. He’s perfectly capable of getting into the car. Jones raises an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t comment.

With a quiet word to the nurse, Jones shuts the door and rounds the car to take the driver’s seat. He spends most of the ride listening to Jones discuss the latest gossip at the White Collar unit. Everyone is focused on Diana’s upcoming nuptials. Neal doesn’t say anything; the swelling on his face still hasn’t receded completely, so talking is a new experience all together.

“She still wants you to do the bachelor party,” Jones says, but they both know that will be near to impossible. His recovery will get in the way, his sinuses were bruised during the accident and he’s fighting an infection that threatens the healing of his jaw. He needs rest most of all.

In response he only nods to Jones.

“I’ll – I’ll help, you don’t have to worry about that,” Jones smiles at him. “Of course, I think male strippers are out, but what about female ones? Do you think Diana would like that?”

Neal scowls at him and Jones just laughs as they turn to take the bridge to Brooklyn. He knows as Jones takes the street toward the Burke’s home that he’s hopefully, just joking. Jones prattles on about the plans, where they should host it, when it should be. It occurs to Neal that he was planning a party when the car interrupted their lunch. Elizabeth’s birthday. He had wanted to make it special, since he hadn’t been able to celebrate with her last year.

He tries to push the thoughts of birthdays and weddings away. His head pounds and he looks at his watch, it is nearly time for his next dose of pain meds. The doctor dropped him from vicodin to prescription strength ibuprofen. Neal thinks the doctor might have been in league with the nurse. Jones maneuvers the vehicle into a space only a few houses away from the Burke’s. Neal climbs out of the car and lets the flashes of light settle before he attempts to walk to the steps. Lightheadedness, and swirling darkness seem to be the order of the day with his pain, swelling, and threatening infection. The doctor warned that if the infection in his sinus reached his jaw bone, he could face partial jaw removal. Neal is sure the doctor is a sadist.

Jones grabs hold of Neal’s left arm and without a word, helps him up the stairs. He allows Neal to balance against him and Neal nods with his thanks.

The door swings open before they make the landing and Elizabeth greets him with a soft gaze. She ushers them into the house and has Jones help him up to the guest room without ceremony. It takes a few minutes of Jones hovering over him, helping him take off his jacket, placing his hat on the side table, removing his shoes, and tucking him in before Elizabeth is finally able to get him to leave. Once she shows him to the door, she re-appears at his bedside.

“I think he has a crush on you or something,” Elizabeth giggles and Neal just rolls his eyes. “Oh yes, I forgot, everyone has a crush on Neal Caffrey.” She pats his shoulder and then says, “Peter’s in the other room, do you want to go lie down with him, hon?”

The word crashes into him _hon_. He forces himself not to shiver, not to tremble at the sound of it. He shakes his head and mimes sleep.

She tilts her head in question. “You’re sure? Peter’s feeling up to it. He’d like to just see you.”

“Ya-ter.” He pretends to sleep again.

“Oh, sure, I’ll tell him,” Elizabeth says and leans over to kiss his forehead. “Sleep, sweetie. I’ll be back to check on you.”

Neal nods and deflates a degree when she exits. _What the hell was that all about?_ He can’t even answer his own question. He thinks about her kind face, the heart of her definition is always written on Elizabeth Burke’s face. She loves him, Peter loves him. He just said no.

He sinks back into the cushions, and throws his left arm over his eyes, but the pressure hurts too much and he has to remove it. Lying there, he stares at the ceiling and thinks _Why?_

*oOo*  
_He learned how to charm everyone at a very young age. At five he had the kindergarten teacher allowing him extra time to color when the other kids had to line up for physical education classes. At nine, he worked over the pool hall both with his tenacity and his skill. At sixteen, he ran the highschool and never looked back, until he did. The girls all loved him and some of the boys; the teachers adored him and never seemed to understand it was all a con, the earliest of his cons. When his eighteenth birthday rolled around and he learned the truth of his life and his inheritance Neal Caffrey understood that sometimes the apple rots at the core but the outside still looks healthy and bright._

_He ran away, he ran from the truth. He runs still to this day with his flashy suits, his perfect hair, and his slick words. No one ever really sees Neal Caffrey._

_No one._

*oOo*  
Once dinner rolled around, Neal could no longer force Elizabeth to run from one room to the other. He silently agreed to go sit on the bed with Peter. Walking along side of him, Elizabeth helped him into the room and deposited him on the bed.

Something inside of him cringes when Peter says, “Hon, I missed you.” He grasps Peter hand in his own and lets it guide him close to Peter. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come to the hospital, doctor wants me to stay on bed rest of a few more days. I have to start a regiment of vaccinations to makes sure I don’t get meningitis or pneumonia. Otherwise I should be good to go.”

Neal nods. It is good to hear Peter’s voice, good to feel the weight of him next to Neal.

“Can I?” Peter leans forward as if he wishes to kiss Neal.

Neal tries to say no, but it comes out as more of a ‘oo’ sound. He shakes his head and offers the side of his face that isn’t injured.

Peter touches his lips to Neal’s cheek, then his closed eye. He cups Neal’s face in his hands and whispers, “I am so sorry that happened to you. I can’t imagine having no one there to wake up to.”

The pain flips over in his gut and Neal grips the blankets. He doesn’t want to remember, he doesn’t want to feel it again. He looks down and away. He has no real way to explain this to Peter. He wants to just let it be.

Elizabeth enters the room, saving him from further apologizes or walks down memory lane. She carries a tray. Placing it on the side table, she helps Peter get comfortable and places it on his lap. She offers Neal a variety of soft pureed foods and a bottle of Ensure. She also has his pain meds and the antibiotic for the sinus infection.

He drinks half the bottle of the Ensure as he takes the liquid ibuprofen. Elizabeth sprinkles the crushed antibiotic into his apple juice and tells him to drink it all. She really is a fiendish mother hen when it comes to nursing care because she stares at him until he does down the entire glass. Finally she offers him a glass of water, his medicated mouth wash, and the bowl. She urges him to just go ahead, he follows her lead.

First he rinses his mouth with the water, then he sips a measured dose of the prescription mouthwash. The swirling is light and soft, he can’t tear away at the stitches in his mouth or the abrasions. He has to hold it in his mouth for at least thirty seconds. He spits it out and his tongue and gums burn from it. It makes him wretch a little, but Peter’s hand on his back, rubbing up and down calms him.

“Shh, shush,” Peter is saying as he comes back to himself.

He sighs and leans back.

“Sleep,” Elizabeth tells both of them as she cleans up the tray.

He doesn’t realize that he had fallen to sleep until he wakes up with his head cushioned on Peter’s chest. What wakes him up is the low murmur and vibrations of Peter’s voice resonating in his chest. It feels like the chords of a piano. He wants to smile but it hurts too much. He keeps his eyes closed as he listens.

“Maybe, but I think he’ll adjust,” Peter is saying.

“He just seems a bit reserved,” Elizabeth replies.

“He’s still in a lot of pain, and he went through a helluva experience in the hospital,” Peter says. His finger is tracing figure eights along Neal’s side and hip. “El, I just feel as if we never considered this part of our relationship.”

“I know, when the nurse asked me what my relationship was to Neal, I stuttered, I didn’t know what to say at all.” She stops then adds, “You should have seen those marshals; they were gleeful to sit on him. Hughes was adamant but the marshal dug up every rule in the book to keep him isolated.”

“I’ll talk to Hughes. This can’t happen again,” Peter says. “God, I hope nothing ever happens to him again.”

Neal feels the weight of the bed shift and change and realizes Elizabeth is leaning forward. “To both of you, hon. I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to either of you.” They share a kiss and Neal cracks open his eyes to see the touch of mouths, the drag of lips as they linger over one another. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Peter says, his words are tender but fierce. Neal loves the sounds of them echoing through his chest.

Elizabeth catches him staring up at them and she leans down and blesses the top of his head with a kiss as well. “Sleep well?”

“Hmm,” he replies and pushes himself up to get to the bathroom.

He takes his time but eventually breaks down and looks at his reflection in the mirror. Color and bruising streaks the one side of his face. The swelling recedes but still bloats his cheek and jaw. The black eyes are fading but greens and yellows outline his still slightly blood shot whites. His nose, though never broken, has finally decreased in swelling enough to actually see the shape of it. A long cut lines his hair but it was sutured by a plastic surgeon and shouldn’t leave much of a scar. He lifts up his chin and sees the long slice down his jawline and across his neck. The doctor had reported that a centimeter over and the wound would have hit his jugular.

He tries to wash up as quickly as possible, but it takes time with a broken arm and healing lacerations. He’s nearly done when Elizabeth asks if everything is okay. He frowns in the mirror and then grunts at her. He can talk a little bit, but it still hurts.

She giggles which makes him grunt more at her and he finally comes out of the bathroom. She guides him back to their bed even though he points to the guest bedroom. “Oh no you don’t.”

In moments everyone is stripped down. He wears only his boxers and a t-shirt. They give him the left side of the bed so that his right arm can be cushioned by pillows. Elizabeth directs Peter in the middle since she needs to be able to get up if there’s an emergency.

Peter slips against him, puts his leg over Neal as if to anchor him, slides his foot up and down against the tracking anklet and then smiles. “I love you.”

Neal raises his left hand and signs the same.

The last thing Neal hears is Elizabeth’s sigh as he drifts back to sleep.

*oOo*  
Two weeks later, Elizabeth is sighing in frustration as she puts her hands on her hips and considers both Peter and Neal. House bound and irritable, Neal has taken to practicing his skills on Elizabeth and anyone else who happens by the house. She actually curses him when he produces the wallet of one of her clients.

“Neal, do you realize you could get me fired?” Elizabeth snaps the wallet out of his hand. “He’s a big client with a lot of clout.”

“Ee’s a prick,” Neal comments, and looks to Peter for some support.

He raises his hands and says, “Don’t look at me; I am not getting involved in this.”

Neal raises his hand and points at the wallet. “Ou dar me.”

“You dared him to do it?” Elizabeth says and Neal considers whether or not fire will actually burst out of her already flaming eyes.

“Well, he was a prick,” Peter says. “I didn’t like the way he spoke to you.”

Neal makes agreeable noises.

She glares at him and says, “Oh shut up.” She leaves the living room and goes to her purse. Neal hears her hits the buttons of her phone and soon she is speaking to her client. She weaves a tale even Neal is proud of.

Neal winks at Peter and he smiles back. “That was a good one.”

Neal purses his lips and shakes his head. “Naut back me up.”

“I didn’t back you up?” Peter laughs. “This is crime, hon. I don’t back up crime.”

Neal doesn’t reply but lets the sting of it burn across him. He turns his head away and concentrates on rubbing Satchmo.

“Hon?” Peter asks. “Hon?” When Neal doesn’t turn around, Peter becomes more insistent. “Neal?”

“Don’t caul me dat.”

“What?”

“Don-.” He stops picks up the pad and paper he carries around and scribbles with his left hand. _Don’t call me that._

“Don’t call you, what?” Peter asks and tugs a bit on Neal’s shoulder.

“Dat, -un.” Neal shrugs him off and stands. He leaves and goes upstairs. Once there, he finds himself in the guest room with the door closed and locked. He sits on the bed, staring at a point on the wall. He can’t find himself, he isn’t sure who he is anymore. Even when Peter taps on the door, he doesn’t answer. He just fixates on the wall and says nothing.

*oOo*  
_There are certain things you learn when you decide to follow the path of the criminal world. There are different levels, like Dante’s hell. The accidental criminal, the mom or dad or teenager who broke the law but never really meant to. Maybe dad was racing his car across town to get to a meeting, or mom was trying to contain their uncontrollable dog, or their teenager drove the getaway car for a hit on a convenience store and never really knew what his friends were doing. There’s drug crime from users to sellers, to wars, to manslaughter. There’s murder, and rape, and child abuse, all of which Neal Caffrey considers on the lower rungs. He always considered himself on the higher rungs, just short of heaven, just short of reformed. White Collar crime where money is laundered and beautiful possessions change hands but no one is physically hurt, ever._

_Then why does he hurt now?_

*oOo*  
He feels like a teenager, an idiot and a whiner. He doesn’t lose his cool, he doesn’t lose his temper. He doesn’t cry. Since the accident though he feels like he’s been walking along the edge of a cliff, balancing with a burden on his back that he can quite get the feel for, he can’t quite get it to sit correctly on his shoulders so he can make the journey. Something is off, something isn’t right.

Mozzie is as exasperated with him as Elizabeth is. Though Mozzie fills the empty silences with grandiose theories of the new world order and the stupidity of the masses, Neal doesn’t join in, not even for a quiet come back. By four weeks post hospital, he convinces Mozzie to ask Elizabeth to let him go home. It was fairly easy; sometimes the lure of the big score makes Mozzie an easy mark. All Neal had to do was tell him they couldn’t speak freely, and that there were things to be said and Mozzie was ready to play the game for him.

Neal plays a game as well. He tells Peter he was just over tired, not feeling well. He knows how to lie and he lies well. The fact is though his façade cracks and he doesn’t want to be around his lovers when it finally does, when he comes face to face with the crumbling parts of him. They cannot see it, they would not understand. They love the outer visage of Neal Caffrey, not the lost parts of him.

Peter hesitates but accepts Neal’s stories. Mozzie pushes to get Neal released from the Burkes. When Peter quizzes Neal about it, he’s obtuse but still he answers.

“A wi-tel space.”

“A little space?” Peter says. “I’m going back to work in a week, can’t you stay here?”

“Paint.” Neal points to his head.

“You want to paint, with your _left_ hand?”

Neal only nods. “Need it.”

“Oh,” Peter says as if reality dawns on him. “Okay, but you’ll come back, right?”

Neal doesn’t look at him when he lies. He hates lying to Peter. “Y-yes.”

*oOo*  
Neal doesn’t go back in a week, he stops answering phone calls. He listens to Mozzie and gazes at the tracking anklet. He’s cut it before, he could do it again. This time he would run hard and fast and never let Peter find him. Mozzie sips wine and glowers at him.

“I’m tired of this, mon frère. You really need to get your mojo back,” Mozzie says.

“Hmm?” Neal says. The cast makes his arm itch and the wires are abrading the inside of his mouth. How the hell can anyone get their mojo back when he’s trussed up like a zombie-cyborg hybrid.

“What is going on with you? You haven’t painted; you don’t listen to my enormously interesting and very truthful explanation of the housing bubble conspiracy by the financial world elite. Something isn’t right.”

Something isn’t right. He agrees with Mozzie, but even if his mouth was free to speak the words he doesn’t think he could.

He wants to lie within the cradle of Elizabeth’s embrace; he wants to feel Peter’s strong arms around him, holding him, grounding him. He wants to know that these things are his, freely and rightly. He recalls how tender and sweet Elizabeth was as she helped him bath and washed his wounds. How she led Peter to the shower and assisted him, getting into the bath herself to cleanse away his pains and hurts.

He counted the number of times that first week Elizabeth went up and down the stairs waiting on them. He ended up not buzzing her phone once when it was time for his meds, but instead just laid there. He didn’t want her to have to climb the staircase yet again. Peter was napping beside him. He couldn’t sleep; the pain was harsh and pounding. After an hour when Peter woke to see him holding his face in his hands, it was Peter who called for Elizabeth; it was Elizabeth who chastised him. It didn’t matter how many times she ran up and down the stairs, what mattered most was that he would feel comfortable, cared for, and part of a family.

He recalls how wonderful it was to be there with them, healing and feeling like a family. But then the darkness, the shades would creep back and he would remember little things and realize other things. They couldn’t see him at the hospital. Once he is off the anklet it will be nearly impossible for either of them to see him if he’s under medical care. The marshal’s had it right. He was isolated for a reason. He is by definition a criminal. He is by definition and by anklet a felon. Yet, they love him, but – but – but-

He is their dirty little secret.

“I thought you liked being at the Burke’s?” Mozzie says. “Seems to me you were making it pretty cozy with the misses when I went to visit a couple of times. You weren’t, you know, making it with Mrs Suit and the Suit found out?” Only the raise of an eyebrow is Mozzie’s answer. It quells his concern, but then he adds, “You get the wires off in a week; you know the Suit is going to want to know what’s going on. I can’t hold him off forever.”

Mozzie has been playing interference with both of the Burkes over the better part of the week. June washed her hands of his cat and mouse game and told him there were certain things in life you can’t con away, and one of them is family. She glared at him, tilted her head with a knowing look, and walked away. Neal never felt so exposed.

Before Neal can actually respond to Mozzie, there’s a knock on the door. It is ten o’clock at night.

“Shit,” Neal says through clenched teeth.

Mozzie gets up and opens the door. Peter stands there, his hair dripping from the rain covering the city. “This is my cue to leave. Suit.”

“Thanks Mozzie,” Peter says.

Neal does a double take as Mozzie gives his Cheshire cat smile and leaves. _Double cross._

“Neal.”  
“P-ter.”

“It would be nice if you answered your phone or let us come here, or even came back like you said you were going to do,” Peter says. He’s expression is unyielding but with a gentle edge to it as if seeing Neal wore away a bit of the anger.

“Sowry,” Neal says but doesn’t explain. There’s too much to explain and no words will help him, not even if he could speak them clearly.

Peter approaches him, his hand settles against Neal’s hip bone. He knows he’s lost a significant percentage of his body weight since being on an all liquid diet for six weeks. He also knows this single place, where hip meets waist is Peter’s favorite place to touch Neal. He slides his cold hand up under Neal’s shirt and curves around the jut of his bone. Neal hisses in response.

“Hon,” Peter says and leans in to kiss him.

Neal pulls away and, with regret, disengages from Peter’s touch. “Don’t.”

“What?” Peter looks down at his hands. “Don’t touch you?”

Neal hates the wires, hates that he can’t tell him. “Go.”

“No.”

“P-eez.”

“No, I’m not going anywhere until you explain what the hell is going on?” Peter opens up his hands again as if to plead his case. “Do you not love us anymore?”

“No.” Neal huffs and says, “Wuv ou.”

“You do love us?” Peter runs a hand through his wet hair and droplets like tears rain down over his face. “Then what, Neal, what?”

“C-c-.” Neal sighs and races over to the drawer in the kitchen. He pulls out the clippers, the same ones he cut away at the tracking anklet. As he raises the blades to his face, Peter yells out for him to stop. It has been nearly seven weeks, it’s enough. He can’t take it anymore.

Before Peter can stop him, he has the clippers in his mouth and saws away at the wires. He’s gagging as he’s trying to get the blades deep enough. Finally, Peter comes over and knocks his hands away. He works at the wires and cuts them free. Neal will still need to get the anchors removed from his mouth but the wires scatter over his floor and sink. He rubs at his jaw and moves it around. It is stiff and hurts when he opens his mouth.

“I love you,” Neal says, but the words still sound off. “I love both you and Elizabeth, but-.”

“But?”

“But I can’t go there,” Neal says.

“You want to break up with us?” Peter says and places the clippers down as if they are reverent.

Neal puts his hand over Peter’s and says, “No, I don’t but it might be for the best.”

“The best?” Peter nods and there is a resignation in his shoulders, his stance as if he always knew it was coming. Peter walks away, paces over to the dining area and back again.

Neal breathes in and it feels heavy, hard, and painful. It sends bolts of pain into his newly healed sinuses. “I can’t go there; I can’t be ‘hon’.”

Peter furrows his brows and looks at Neal. He crosses the distance to the table again, putting space between them. “I don’t understand. I don’t-.”

“Hon is something you and Elizabeth use as a passage of messages. It means so much more than an endearment. Elizabeth told me that once.” Neal watches as Peter fumbles with the chair in the dining room until he finally collapses into it. “When you called me it in the hospital it meant so much to me. It made me feel as if I meant something.”

“And you do, you mean the world to us.”

“But still.” Even with his mouth free of the wires, Neal still cannot express his reservations. “I’m still a con, Peter. I always will be. Even reformed, it’s part of my definition. The marshals got it right. They locked me up, chained me to the bed because I’m a criminal. I’m outside that circle of hon. I’m not part of that.”

“Your criminal record has nothing to do with our family, well it does, but not like that,” Peter replies. His eyes are searching Neal as he waves Neal over to him. “We invited you in; we want you to be a part of us.”

“But I can’t be, not really.” Neal says and falls into the chair across from Peter. “When the anklet is gone, where will we be then?” He places a finger over Peter’s mouth. When Peter quiets, he lets his hand drop. “You can’t see me if I’m in the hospital, you won’t have that authority. You and El can see one another, but not me.”

Peter gazes down at his open hands in his lap. He stays like that, partially hunched over for a few minutes, the silence of the rain outside magnifies. Slowly, he turns to look at Neal. “I would lie and would cheat, I would con every last one of them to see you, Neal. Don’t you know that? Don’t you understand that I know that there are lines and then there are different lines. I will cross this one, for you. So will Elizabeth, we talked about it. She understands, I understand. You are worth it.”

Neal doesn’t answer, but considers how far he’s pulled Peter over the line and somewhere deep inside it cuts away at his marrow, but Peter saves him from his own castigation.

“You are hon,” Peter whispers. He stands and then bends over, encompassing Neal. Peter caresses his mouth with his lips, slips his tongue along the rigid and elicits a hitch of desire. The worry, the concern twist and turn away as the need arises and tugs at him.

“Hon?” His words are breathless and needy.

“Always,” Peter says.

It is a promise and it is all Neal needs.

THE END  



End file.
